


held you close

by wordsoverflow



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, In a manner of speaking, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Sexual Tension, Shyness, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 20:23:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19448875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsoverflow/pseuds/wordsoverflow
Summary: “Taron,” he says, carefully. There’s fear in his eyes but calm in the set of his mouth, the way it’s curved in the ghost of a small smile. Taron has absolutely no idea what to make of that. “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”(taron wants to know why he can't stop staring at richard. he also wants to know why richard keeps fussing after him.)





	held you close

**Author's Note:**

> richard really does dote on taron quite a bit and it really does wreak emotional havoc in me. enjoy a fic that is exactly half self-indulgent fluff about richard being soft with taron and half filthy, filthy, filthy porn

Richard _fusses_ over Taron. 

—

“Jacket?” Richard asks when they’re getting ready to leave a small downtown pub one night, some weeks into filming.

“What?” Taron asks a little blearily—it’s late and although he last had a drink over an hour ago, he’s still a bit tipsy. 

Richard squints at him, probably still somewhat intoxicated himself. “Your jacket,” Richard repeats, a little louder. He steps closer to Taron and brushes a hand clumsily over Taron’s chest. “You need your jacket.”

Taron blinks. “Rich, it’s—it’s _August_. It’s nighttime, yeah, but it’s not like it’s actually cold outside.” He’s not even entirely sure he brought a jacket with him to the pub.

Paying him no mind, Richard shakes his head and begins darting around the set of tables they and several others from cast and crew had been sat at. Taron watches him search, feeling mildly bemused. He’s just thought he should start helping to look when Richard makes a noise of triumph.

“There we go!” He bends down and scoops something up off the floor. The movement makes the hem of his shirt ride up from his jeans slightly, exposing a strip of pale skin—Taron only _notices_ this. Nothing else. Richard comes back over to Taron, an old faded brown jacket carefully folded over his arm. “You see?” 

Taron nods and starts to reach out for the garment but Richard tuts and opens the jacket up himself. “Turn round,” Richard says expectantly. His heartbreaker blue eyes look so sincere. 

Too nonplussed and tired to really argue the point, Taron does as requested and Richard slips the jacket onto his arms, his shoulders. He taps on Taron’s back once it’s on and Taron turns to face him once more. Richard smiles a bit, adjusts the jacket so it’s fitted properly on Taron, and brushes a hand over Taron’s elbow. “There,” Richard says.

Taron opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and then closes it once more. Richard squints at him one more time then gestures at the door behind Taron. “Shall we? Filming first thing in the morning, you know.” 

Fair point. Taron abandons his confusion for the moment and leads the way out the door, Richard close behind him. 

—

“Wait,” Richard says suddenly from inside the recording booth. Taron hears him because Dex still has the intercom on. Taron stays still, quite bemused, as he watches Richard apparently search through the clutter of equipment inside the booth. Several minutes later, Richard lets out a triumphant noise and walks through the door into the studio with Taron. 

“Have you gone a bit mad?” Taron asks, laughing. 

Richard rolls his eyes. “Ha ha,” he says quite dryly. Then he holds up a pair of recording headphones. “These are the good ones. The ones you like.” The shirt he’s wearing today might be considered by some to be a touch too small—Taron considers it an exercise in _not staring_. 

“Uh,” Taron says blankly. Richard reaches up and plucks the pair Taron had been preparing to use from where they’re resting around the back of his neck. He unplugs them carefully from all the various equipment around Taron, sets them aside, then busies himself connecting the new pair of headphones in all the right places. 

Taron eyes the headphones and sees that Richard is right—these _are_ the headphones Taron likes best. He always feels his does his best vocals while using them. Not enough to bother any of the studio technicians but enough that he’s happy to see them found and apparently enough for Richard to remember. “How did you…?” Taron starts. Richard moves directly in front of him, settling the headphones into place over Taron’s ears. 

His face is...it’s quite _close_ like this. Just yesterday they’d filmed their love scene and Taron is rudely reminded of the way Richard _feels_ pressed against him, the taste of his mouth and the warmth of his skin. It suddenly feels several degrees hotter in the room, and Taron tries to focus on the most innocuous parts of Richard’s face for the seemingly endless seconds it takes him to adjust the damn headphones. The problem is, there aren’t really any actually innocuous parts of Richard’s face. It’s all unfairly gorgeous, carved and balanced. 

“Good?” Taron sees more than hears Richard ask the question once he drops his hands from fiddling with the headphones. 

He reaches up to touch the headphones with his fingertips. “Yeah,” he says. “Great. Thank you.” Taron absolutely means it. 

Richard grins at him, lighting up those _eyes_ , a sparkle to the blue and creases at the corners. “Break a leg,” Richard say, louder so that Taron can actually hear him. Taron shakes his head and smiles—like Richard hasn’t come to the studio to watch Taron nearly every occasion. Richard backs up a few steps and then turns to walk away.

On pure impulse, Taron reaches out and grabs Richard by the forearm. Richard pauses and looks back at him curiously. Taron tugs gently at him and Richard comes closer easily. Taron isn’t entirely sure what makes him do it, but he leans forward and gives Richard a very quick, close mouthed kiss on the cheek. Richard smells just as he did yesterday, tangled up on that bed with Taron, and his skin feels the same under Taron’s lips. Their chests are nearly touching, and that almost feels the same, too. Quickly, Taron pulls away and lets go of Richard’s forearm. “For luck,” he says, shrugging in what he hopes is a casual way when Richard raises his brows questioningly. 

“Now who’s gone a bit mad?” Richard teases. “Don’t know why I put up with you.” He brushes a hand over Taron’s bicep as he says it, then gives him a smile before actually returning through the door to the booth. 

Taron half-expects to see the technicians in the booth staring open-mouthed, but both seem quite preoccupied with their phones. Taron hopes it isn’t just a ruse and that there really weren’t any witnesses to his lack of impulse control. The technicians look up, finally, once Richard is seated back in place and Taron gives them the go-ahead thumbs up. Music swells—-Saturday Night’s Alright, this time—and Taron closes his eyes briefly before jumping straight in. Of the many things he’s fallen in love with while working on this film, recording the music is one of the nearest and dearest to his heart. 

He opens his eyes, still belting the lyrics, and sees Richard smiling happily at him, bouncing along in his seat slightly to the music. Taron grins at him between verses and sings a little louder when the chorus comes back around. That makes Richard dance a bit more in his seat and Taron realizes the louder he sings, the faster Richard dances, the bigger he smiles. Taron keeps singing louder. 

—

“We’ve got the prosciutto and harvarti wraps, the kale and walnut salad bowls, and the carne asada tacos on lunch’s catering today,” a very young looking PA is saying to Taron, Richard, and Bryce as they get touched up for their next scenes. 

Taron’s distracted by the uncomfortable tug of adhesive on his scalp as they attach the hair pieces, and his mind is already preoccupied with the scene material. He gives a courteous nod to the PA—he loathes being rude to any of the crew, even if he doesn’t particularly have any feedback for this information. 

The PA gives him a friendly smile and moves to walk to the next group of people. “Hold on,” Richard calls. 

Taron slides his eyes over to see Richard with his arm up, halting the PA. He knits his brows slightly—Richard’s never been one to complain or take personal interest in the catering menu each day. “Has the order already been sent in for that menu?” Richard starts. His makeup artist ducks in briefly to dab a bit of color on his lips. Taron fights back a laugh. As if Richard needs it.

“Uh,” the PA says, pulling out his phone and swiping through it briefly. “No, no not yet.” 

“Would it muck it all up if you could change the prosciutto to pastrami?” Richard asks. He tilts his head up as the makeup artist dabs some concealer onto his throat. 

“Not at all,” the PA says easily. He types something into his phone and gives another friendly smile.

Richard grins back. “Thanks, lad.” The PA nods and walks off once more. 

“What was that about?” Taron asks. He closes his eyes as his own makeup artist, Fanny, dabs a sponge over his face. He blinks them back open and turns to look at Richard as Fanny goes to rummage through a large cosmetic case. 

Richard has his face tilted up as his artist brushes some sort of product lightly over his cheeks. The angle alarmingly accentuates the strong line of his jaw. The artist steps back then, apparently finished, and Richard drops his chin and looks at Taron. “You hate how salty prosciutto tastes,” Richard explains, as if it were obvious. 

“I do?” Taron says dumbly. “I do,” he confirms. Because he does—not deeply, not aggressively. But it is true he’s not particularly fond of the deli meat and he wonders when he mentioned it, how he said it that made it stick in Richard’s mind. “There were other options,” Taron points out. “On the menu, other things.” 

“Be a darling and look at me, would you?” Fanny says to him kindly. 

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Taron mumbles. He does as told and she dabs a bit of makeup at the corner of his eyes.

Fanny steps back, eyes him critically, then nods approvingly. “You’re all done, then.” 

Taron gives her a grateful smile and she walks off. He turns to look back over at Richard, who’s eyeing him, looking rather nonplussed. “Well, yeah,” Richard concedes. “But you like wraps the most, usually, when they have them.” 

Taron blinks. This is also true, even if it’s not something he’s thought a lot about. “Right,” he says, because he can’t really think of a better response. 

Richard stares at him, then leans foreward and grips Taron’s elbow. “Are you alright, T?” He narrows his eyes. “You seem a bit off.” He smirks then. “I mean, more than usual. You always act a bit of a prat but this is _dire_.” 

Taron rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck off, Dicky.” 

“Shut it!” Richard says immediately, and Taron snickers in triumph. 

“We all know he calls you Dicky, Dicky,” Bryce says suddenly from Richard’s other side. Taron bursts into laughter and wishes he were close enough to give Bryce a proper high five, perhaps even a hug. 

Richard _pouts_ , and removes his hand from Taron’s elbow, sitting back in his chair. “This is bullying,” he declares. 

Taron laughs for a bit longer, then quiets down. “I’m fine, though, Richard. Really.” He reaches over himself and gives Richard’s knee a reassuring pat. Richard smiles happily at him and that’s that. 

At lunch, Taron snags a pastrami and harvarti wrap, remembers it’s Richard’s doing, and grabs a second one. Richard grins when he sees Taron’s plate where they’ve sat themselves on a curb just outside the studio. Taron polishes both off while Richard chatters on beside him—they’re delicious. 

—

“Hey, love.” Richard announces his presence in a soft, low voice. Taron hears him quietly shut the door the abandoned stage closet Taron’s hidden himself in. “Do you want me here? I can go.” He means it, too. 

Taron sniffs where he’s sat on the floor and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Stay,” he croaks. Jesus, he wish he knew how to just fucking snap out of it after these kind of scenes, the heavy and involved kind. He wonders if it’s like this all the time for actors that regularly go deep into roles this way. 

“Okay,” Richard says simply. Taron hears him sit down on the floor beside Taron. There’s the crinkle of plastic. “Brought you a water,” Richard says. “If you want it.” 

Taron doesn’t feel particularly thirsty—he feels exhausted and hurt for no reason—but he thinks it’s probably a good idea to drink some water anyway. “Thanks,” he says, dropping his hands and blinking rapidly, before turning his head to find the water bottle and pick it up from where Richard has left it on the floor for him. He chugs down half its content in one go and already feels less shaky by the time he sets it back down. “Talk about something, please.” 

Richard huffs a little. “Like what?” 

“Anything.” Taron shifts a little closer, enough that their shoulders are touching. A smile ghosts over Richard’s lips so quickly Taron wonders if he imagined it. 

“Well,” Richard starts, slow and gentle. “Last week, I was practicing some of our dance routine, at home by myself. And I tripped and I’m pretty sure I twisted my ankle.” 

“What?” Taron says, startled into a brief chuckle as he speaks. 

Richard smiles for real then. “Yeah.” He shakes his head. “Not badly, of course. Nothing a bit of paracetamol couldn’t fix. I have more than just a bruise to my ego though.” He leans down and rolls up the edge of his pants. There’s a bruise about the size of a plum blooming just above his ankle—it’s green and yellow already, clearly more than a few days old. 

“Oh my God,” Taron splutters, trying not to laugh. He scoots closer and brushes his fingers over the bruise. “It’s not funny,” he assures Richard. He bites his lip. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m going to laugh.” And then he does, full on for almost a minute. When he finally stops and sits back up, Richard has the goofiest grin on his face, eyes fixed on Taron like nothing could be more fascinating. 

“I saw you fall on your arse practicing the other day,” Richard taunts, though there isn’t even a drop of malice to his voice. 

Taron smacks Richard’s knee lightly. “You did _not_! I did no such thing!” A blatant lie—he did fall, and his tailbone hurt for two days afterwards. Perhaps he and Richard weren’t entirely cut out for this part of the work but clearly neither of them is going to stop trying at it. 

“Sure.” Richard shrugs a shoulder easily. “Whatever you say.” He flashes Taron a teasing smile. He leans down to roll his pant leg pant into place and when he sits back up, Taron suddenly can’t keep himself from moving into to rest his head on Richard’s shoulder, scooting close enough that he’s sort of leaning onto Richard. 

“Oh,” Richard says, a small sound of surprise.

“Alright?” Taron asks, ready to move at the first indication of discomfort. 

Richard simply shifts a bit into a more comfortable position, and moves his arm to sling around Taron’s shoulders, so that Taron is properly tucked into his side. “You’re fine,” Richard says. “Promise.” 

Richard is very warm and his cologne smells very expensive and if Taron peers up he can see the strong, striking angles of Richard’s face from an entirely new perspective. It’s all terribly comfortable and pleasant and he maybe sort of doesn’t want to move ever. 

“How are you now?” Richard questions softly after a few long minutes of silence. 

Taron sighs, perhaps nuzzling a little closer into his happy space. “Good,” he says honestly. “I feel like it shouldn’t take so much out of me.” He fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “Like I should be better at it—handling it.” 

Richard snorts, unexpectedly. He softens it with a kiss to the top of Taron’s head. “It’s going to take a lot out of you, because you’re putting so much into it. And that’s a sign that you are already doing so fucking much, T. You don’t need to be better at any of it. You’re magnificent just like this.” He huffs. “I’ll take the cuddles but I will not stand for you slandering yourself. It’s just bad taste.” 

Taron smiles a bit. “Yeah, yeah. Alright.” 

“Good,” Richard says, tightening his arm around Taron briefly, as if in a sort of embrace.

“You called me ‘love’,” Taron points out suddenly, before he’s even really registered he’s going to say it. “When you came in here you, that’s...you called me that.” 

Richard tangibly stiffens, muscles taut where Taron is pressed up against him. “Sorry…” He sounds painfully nervous, very abruptly, and whatever Taron’s reasons for bringing it up, this was not one of them.

“No,” he says. “No, it’s alright.” He reaches out and gives Richard’s knee a squeeze. “It’s nice.” 

There’s a beat, and then Richard relaxes against him once more. Taron stifles a sigh of relief and allows himself to close his eyes in contentment once more. “Not many people have a best mate willing to give out cuddles on demand,” Taron muses.

Richard _giggles_. “You’re just spoiled,” he assures Taron. “They’re putting something extra in my paycheck for this.” Taron flicks his abdomen feebly in retaliation but doesn’t budge otherwise. They’ll be wanted back on set shortly but for now, Taron is perfect just where he is. 

—

Taron has been on countless red carpets before—none of this is at all new to him. Still, it doesn’t make the magnified feeling of being observed, photographed, catalogued any less bizarre. It doesn’t take the rapid flash of cameras in his face any less disorienting. He certainly enjoys the overall thrill of walking the red carpet, hearing people call his name and smiling happily to them and listening to shouts for whatever project he’s working on. He loves grouping together with a wonderful set of castmates and standing proudly to represent their work. Even that, however, can be overstimulating in and of itself.

Taron recalls mentioning this only briefly to Richard, in the broadest of terms, and Richard had confided in a similar experience. In fact, Taron didn’t think it could be that unusual—he rather believed it was maybe the norm. 

In any case, he’s not expecting it when at the peak of his red carpet walk for a festival showing in the midst of their press tour, he feels a hand at his mid-back, level with his waist. He knows it’s Richard because this has become more or less Richard’s spot. He doesn’t react beyond taking half a step back into the touch, continuing his conversation with the people in front of him. 

“How is it going?” Richard asks, ducking to make sure Taron can hear him. 

Taron turns his head a bit. “Yeah, yeah. It’s great.” He lets his hand brush Richard’s elbow in some sort of thanks.

Richard nods. “Good,” he says. “Massive crowds tonight.” His hand is still at Taron’s back. Briefly, Taron wonders if he could just keep it there—if they could just walk the whole carpet together like that. 

“I know,” Taron says, smiling. There really is nothing quite like this, the thrill, the unreality. “It’s amazing. I don’t even know how long this thing actually is,” he admits, peering over the sea of people to see an ending, if there is one.

“It’ll feel so quick when it’s over,” Richard comments. He brushes a hand over the shoulder of Taron’s jacket, then tugs at the hem as if to straighten it out. He puts a hand to Taron’s back once more, briefly, before stepping back. “You’re doing great. Showing me up, really.” 

Taron laughs. “Not possible.” Genuinely, though, Richard on a red carpet is akin to a lethal weapon—dangerous, special, impossible to ignore. 

Richard shoots him a wink and then turns to converse with someone beside him. Taron, aware of the buzz of people and the flash of cameras still, faces forward again to do the same. It’s strange—that after all the many, countless things Richard has done to look after Taron, it’s this one the smallest and briefest that makes Taron question, _wonder_.

When they get to another lull in the procession, Taron takes a few steps back and turns, places a light hand onto Richard’s forearm. 

“What is it?” Richard asks, immediately. “Are you alright?” His brow furrows, pretty blue eyes searching Taron’s face quickly. The grey suit he has on brings out the streak in his hair. Taron wonders how anyone can handle being around this man for any length of time and then realizes he’s done just that. Huh. 

“No, no,” Taron assures him. “I’m fine.”

Richard squints his eyes. “Oi,” he says then. “No pranks on the red carpet. We _promised_ ,” he insists in an accusatory tone. “Where’s Jamie? If you two are planning something...” He looks over the group of people around them suspiciously. 

Taron snickers. “Good God, Dicky, did we mess you about that badly on set?” Richard makes a face and Taron physically fights the urge to give him a playful kiss on the cheek, the way he might in private. It always turns his frown to a smile. “No...no...just, if you don’t have any plans after the dinner...come back to my hotel room?” With the number of times they’ve each sacked out at one another’s place while filming, this shouldn’t feel like an odd request at all.

Richard blinks, face relaxing from suspicion into gentle surprise. “Oh, yeah. Of course, T.” He smiles. “As long as you let me raid the booze from your mini fridge.” 

Taron rolls his eyes. “ _Fine_. Leech.” They’ve spent maybe a bit too long lingering near each other and people have started to move again, so Taron gives Richard’s arm a quick squeeze then turns forward again and plunges himself back into the movement of the carpet. 

He’ll deal with…whatever the _fuck_ is happening with himself and his best mate in a few hours’ time, in the safety and comfort of his hotel room. For now, he basks in the moment. 

—

“Richard,” Taron says softly, fiddling with a loose thread on the sweats he’s changed into. 

“Hmm,” Richard responds. His head is tipped back on the back of the plush armchair, just adjacent to Taron’s own seat in the middle of his hotel room. His eyes are closed—if Taron looks closely he can see the faintest dusting of freckles on his jawline. The sweats he’s wearing are clinging tightly to his muscled thighs and the worn t-shirt has a torn collar that exposes whorls of hair at the top of his chest. 

Something inside Taron snaps a little and he admits to himself, consciously for the first time, that he isn’t just _noticing_ how gorgeous Richard is—he’s _wanting_. 

Taron clears his throat, trying to remain calm even as his heart starts beating faster at his internal realization. “Why...why do you do it? Look after me?” He frowns at himself. There has to be a better way to ask this question but for the life of him the words just aren’t coming at the moment.

There’s several seconds pause. Richard opens his eyes first, then slowly brings his head up to look at Taron straight on. “What do you mean?” Richard says the words very carefully, quiet. If Taron didn’t know him so well, he’d miss the tension in Richard’s jaw, the tightness in his shoulders. 

Taron licks his lips, which are suddenly dry. He sees Richard follow the movement with his eyes and wonders if that something Richard always does, too. “You...you look after me,” Taron fumbles. “Fussing after my food, and getting the right headphones for me. Worrying if I’m chilly or have a cold and you always come up and check on me at red carpets. You always know if I’m...overwhelmed, I don’t know how you do it. Back on set, I must have set my phone down and nearly lost it a half dozen times and you always had it kept safe me for me.” Taron realizes he’s proper babbling at this point and shuts his mouth quickly. He must sound insane, high, or frankly delusional. 

Richard is staring at him with those fucking _eyes_. Taron can always read Richard, he’s always on the same wavelength as his best mate, but his panicked brain can’t seem to process Richard’s facial expression at all right now. Taron is just about to open his mouth and laugh it all off somehow, make a joke of it and then very quickly change the subject when Richard finally speaks. “Taron,” he says, careful. There’s fear in his eyes but calm in the set of his mouth, the way it’s curved in the ghost of a small smile. Taron has absolutely no idea what to make of that. “What would you do if I kissed you right now?” 

It’s not at all what Taron was expecting Richard to say. Ten minutes ago Taron wasn’t even prepared to be having this unfamiliar, heart pounding conversation. His brain feels like a train gone off the tracks and yet he knows exactly what his answer to Richard’s question is, no hesitation, even if absolutely everything else is chaos at the moment. “I’d kiss you back,” Taron blurts. 

He blinks and then Richard is kneeling next to his chair beside him, placing an elbow on the arm of Taron’s chair and reaching a hand up to place his hand against Taron’s jaw. His face is just a few inches below Taron’s own and he moves so their lips are a breath apart. There’s a long moment where they stay just like that and then Richard speaks. “Taron.” 

Taron closes the distance between their mouths. It feels... _good_ . It feels like taking the first bite of a food Taron has been craving for weeks on end. In hindsight, that metaphor seems a bit cringeworthy but truthfully that’s the exact instant sense of satisfaction and rush of pleasure Taron feels when he presses his lips to Richard. He supposes it’s true, really—he has been _craving_ this for _months_ and to claim otherwise would just be a lie to himself and to Richard. He brings a hand up to cover Richard’s where it’s still pressed to his jaw. 

“T,” Richard murmurs into the kiss, tilting his head as if trying to press closer. Taron takes the opportunity to slacken his own lips and swipe his tongue over Richard’s. Richard makes a delicious, deep sound and opens his mouth. 

Richard tastes like lemon Pellegrino, from Taron’s fridge—no alcohol for either of them, it turns out—-and the faintest hints of tiramisu leftover from dessert. Taron wants to bury himself here. He takes a sharp, shaky inhale, overwhelmed by the strength of his own fucking want. Richard slows down their kiss, gentling the press of their mouths until it’s soft, sweet pecks once more. 

“Because I bloody like you, you tit,” Richard says then. He moves to kiss down the line of Taron’s jaw. “To answer your question.”

Taron cannot help the smile that spreads across his face. “Are you saying you have a crush on me?” Richard makes a small, irritated sound and continues kissing down to Taron’s neck. “Go on, I want to hear you say it,” Taron teases. He pushes his fingers through Richard’s hair, feels the softness of the strands amongst the last hardened traces of hairspray and product. 

Richard huffs a chuckle into Taron’s neck. “Narcissist,” he accuses. He brings his face back up to Taron’s, nudging their noses together. His eyes are so _blue_ , even in the half-darkness of the room, lit only by a single lamp in the far corner. They’re the kind of blue that only comes from set lighting and SFX, they’re not found in nature—except here is the blue of Richard’s eyes, untouched and organic in the shadows of the tiny, sweet space they’ve created for one another. “So maybe I have a massive crush on you,” Richard says, his face and voice every bit the part of teasing, casual amusement—the only thing giving him away is the blush rising to his cheeks.

Richard doesn’t blush easily, but when he does, it’s impossible to miss. 

“Aw,” Taron sing-songs. “You have a _crush_ on me. Don’t worry, I’ll go to prom with you. I’ll even bring you in a limo.” He laughs when Richard rolls his eyes, then presses close for one more kiss. “It’s alright,” Taron sighs. “I think I probably have a crush on you, too.” 

“Probably?” Richard asks, jabbing a few fingers into Taron’s ribs and making him jump. “What the fuck does that mean?” Taron scratches a few fingers at Richard’s scalp and Richard melts slightly into the touch. 

“It means I have no clue what’s happening at any given time,” Taron explains, “but I think the amount of time I spend staring at your _ridiculous_ face and the number of times you’ve interrupted my thoughts during my morning wanks are good hints.” He didn’t actually mean to let that last part slip but the dirty smirk that crosses Richard’s face when he hears the words is entirely worth it. “Also, the fact that you aren’t still kissing me right now is very upsetting to me.” 

Richard shifts a bit, coming to kneel between Taron’s legs, hands on his thighs. Taron moves his own torso so he’s facing Richard straight on, and Richard straightens up, leans forward so their faces are relatively close once more. “You _wank_ to me?” Richard asks. He sounds as if he doesn’t believe it, almost—this is in fact the most absurd thing Taron has ever considered. Richard must know an alarming amount of people include him in their fantasies while they get off. That thought, however, brings an unfamiliar sensation of jealousy to Taron’s chest—something that is both useless and irrational. He shakes it off. 

“Did I say that?” Taron asks, keeping his eyes wide and innocent. He laughs when Richard makes a face. 

“Okay, just for that….” Richard says, starting to lean back, out of reach for a kiss. 

Taron laughs and hauls him back. “Okay, okay. Dramatic,” he says. He presses a firm, slow kiss to Richard’s lips, waits until Richard softens and nips gently at Taron’s bottom lip. “Of course I did,” Taron says. “Of course.” 

Richard exhales, the breath only slightly shaky. He gives Taron one more lingering kiss, then moves his mouth up along Taron’s jawline “What would you do if I asked you to fuck me?” Richard breathes, when he’s right over Taron’s ear.

Taron feels his own breath hitch and he grips tightly onto Richard’s arm. “I’d say yes,” he murmurs. “I’d say yes and then I’d fuck you.” He can smell Richard’s cologne and hairspray and it’s an addicting combination. 

Richard brings his lips to the corner of Taron’s jaw, so they’re oh so lightly pressed to the skin there. Taron feels every micro movement they make when Richard speaks again. “Fuck me?” 

“ _Yes_.” Taron grabs onto Richard’s elbow and stands them both up before stumbling over to the bed and pushing Richard onto it, settling himself over him. Richard looks up at him, with a smolder that could devastate any role Taron’s seen him play before—and this one is just for Taron, the want in his eyes and the slight pout to his mouth. 

“How long?” Taron grits out as he wrestles Richard out of shirt and immediately places his hands all over the newly exposed skin, a man possessed as he palms over every bit greedily. “How long have you wanted this?” 

Richard groans a little, turns his head to the side. It exposes the hinge of his jaw—how strong and perfectly cut it is. Taron ducks down and sucks a mark right at the very corner. It’ll require heavy concealer before the next press conference but it’s entirely worth for the way Richard gasps and grips Taron’s arse tightly. “I dunno,” Richard says, breathy and low. 

“How can you not know?” Taron asks, mostly just to be irritating as he kisses down Richard’s neck, plants his mouth on his chest and lets the hair their tickle his lips. 

Richard laughs a little and then he’s flipping them over, getting Taron on his back and settling between his legs. He sits up, so he’s more or less towering over Taron, and rests his palms heavily onto Taron’s thighs. “And you? How long have you wanted this?” 

Taron stares at Richard—looking like absolute sex personified above him, every person’s fantasy. _And_ his best mate. He’s not just gorgeous, he’s gorgeous and the person Taron trusts so fucking deeply, the person Taron can spend hours just laughing with, the person who _gets_ Taron, never a moment of awkwardness between them. How could he _not_ want him, too? “Maybe always,” Taron blurts. He frowns a little at himself, but doesn’t take back the words. 

Richard visibly starts breathing a little harder at Taron’s admission. That kind of power is heady—the power to turn Richard on that way, with just a few words. Taron sits up then, so he and Richard are more level with one another. He tugs his own shirt off and Richard’s hands immediately go to his chest. “Did you think about this?” Taron murmurs. “Did you think about what it would feel like?” 

Richard shuts his eyes, bites his lip. “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes.” 

“Fuck,” Taron breathes, flustered himself. “Did you get off to it?” Richard always had a pesky way of intruding into Taron’s thoughts while he was getting off—but Taron wants to know if it was different for Richard, if he actively... _fantasized_ about this, about Taron and got himself off to it. 

Richard makes a very small sound in his throat. Taron brings a hand up and thumbs over Richard’s lips lightly. Richard exhales and his breath ghosts over Taron’s fingers. “Yes,” he says finally. He blinks his eyes open. That SFX-but-real blue will never be less stunning and certainly not when it’s like this, drenched in want and vulnerability. 

Taron _moans_ and turns to press Richard into the mattress, caging him with his body. Richard is panting beneath him and it’s _everything_. “What did you think about?” Taron murmurs, smoothing his hands over Richard’s flanks and then tracing along Richard’s waistband. He sucks in a breath and then moves to press his palm along the line of Richard’s cock. He can _feel_ the heat of it even through the layers of fabric. 

“Oh God,” Richard chokes out. He brings one hand up to grip painfully tight at Taron’s forearm. “Do you really need your ego stroked that badly?” Richard taunts breathlessly. His hips shift slightly, pushing his cock more firmly into Taron’s touch.

Taron wrinkles his nose. “You don’t have to tell me,” he assures Richard, then leans down to kiss him soundly. He’s done this before—snogged Richard deep and long but it’s never been quite so _good_. Cameras and lighting and being immersed in character took away so much. He’s not too proud to admit that it was no hardship making out with Richard for the film—he’s gorgeous and an excellent kisser and every time they needed to redo a scene, a tiny thrill went through Taron. But this is something else.

He lets their lips separate only when they’re both desperately in need of air, but keeps their faces close together while they gasp noisily. 

“Everything,” Richard says suddenly, his voice rough and so fucking low, his accent unbearably thick. “I thought about everything, T. I thought about fucking you. I thought about how you’d fuck me. I thought about eating you out, sucking you. I thought about your mouth on my cock, my arse. I thought about tying you up. I thought about you hurting me a bit, smacking me around. Taking you from behind. Riding you. In a bathroom, somewhere people might hear. Wondered if I could make you cry if I fucked you long enough. Imagined coming on your cock, imagined if you kept fucking me even after I’d got off. _Everything_.” Richard finishes, visibly shaking. 

Taron can hardly breathe, he’s dizzy with how fucking turned on he is. His cock _hurts_. “Richard,” he tries to say, but mostly all he gets out is an incoherent moan. 

Richard’s eyes gleam wildly. “I got off to all of it,” he breathes. “Couldn’t even last two minutes with some of that in my head.” 

For a brief moment, Taron’s mind is suddenly swarmed with images of Richard coming into his own fist, Taron’s name on his lips. It’s too fucking much, ideas so tantalizing he feels he might combust. “Jesus _Christ_ ,” Taron snarls. He fumbles at Richard’s sweats, yanking frantically. He shimmies them down Richard thighs and Richard lifts his hips so Taron can get them down to his knees. 

“I’ll do anything you want,” Taron says, moving down so he can rest his head on Richard’s sharp hipbone and mouth hotly over the bulge of his cock in his briefs. He looks _thick_ , big and hard and oh...Taron swallows down a sudden rush of saliva in his mouth. Apparently that’s something he wants, perhaps a _lot_. “After you let me suck your cock,” he adds impulsively. “Then anything you want.” 

“T,” Richard _groans_ , one hand fumbling to grasp at Taron’s shoulder and the other gripping tightly at the bed sheets. “I-I think I’ll come. If you do that.” 

Taron looks up at Richard and sees a scarlet blush working its way down his chest. He smiles slightly and moves a hand to rest over the one Richard has white-knuckling the sheets. “That’s alright,” Taron soothes. “I want you to. We don’t have a conference tomorrow anyway.” 

He hears Richard gasp when he understands what Taron is implying—that they could spend the rest of the night and tomorrow fucking endlessly. He’s not exaggerating even a little bit. “Okay?” Taron checks, mouth watering again. He’s restless for it, wants it _badly_. He feels like so many things he’s kept strictly skating the sidelines of his consciousness are now rushing at him full strength and it’s—he doesn’t know what to do with it, with this _need_. 

Richard exhales shakily, and turns his hand to grip Taron’s own, giving a quick squeeze. “Okay.” 

Taron presses a sloppy kiss to the warm skin just above the waistband of Richard’s brief—tastes sweat—and then sits up and makes quick removing Richard’s jeans fully, along with his briefs. He does the same for himself, then lays himself out over Richard, carefully pressing the lines of their bodies together. “Oh shit,” Taron groans just as Richard turns his head to the side and lets out a grunt. “Why the fuck haven’t we done this before?” 

Giving a breathy laugh, Richard turns his head back to Taron. His eyes are dancing, amusement sparking his face. “Because we’re tossers. Idiots,” he says. “I mean, mostly you’re the idiot here but I’ll admit my part, too.” Taron rolls his hips forward in retaliation for the jab and Richard _moans_ , tilting his head back slightly and gripping tightly at Taron’s shoulders. Taron would like to do that at least once every day for the foreseeable future. 

“I’m going to suck you off, now,” Taron whispers, his heart picking up pace as he says it. He’s done this before, a handful of times, but he’s never quite been _gagging_ for it like he is now. Richard groans and tosses his head restlessly to the side. Taron sees him bite his lip and then he nods. “And if you think you’re going to come,” Taron says, “come.” 

He slides down Richard’s torso then, kissing at skin as he goes, nuzzling into the coarse hairs on Richard’s chest and abdomen. When he wraps his mouth around the head of Richard’s cock, drool from his watering mouth spills down the shaft instantly. That sparks a slight feeling of embarrassment in him, but he’s too busy absorbing the salty, slightly bitter taste of Richard on his tongue to particularly care. It’s his turn to moan then, and he does, rather loudly. 

“Fuck,” Richard groans, deep and accented. “Oh, you feel good.” Taron whines, feeling quite similarly about Richard and lets himself sink down lower onto Richard’s cock. He breathes shallowly through his nose until his throat relaxes and then takes Richard as deep as he can go. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Richard hisses, jackknifing upwards a bit. “I—didn’t know you— _ohJesusfuckTaronfuck_ —”

Taron pulls up, strokes at the slippery shaft with his fist and tongues at the slit. A bit of precome blurts out and Taron laps that up, bitter flavor spreading over his tongue quicky. He shouldn’t like the taste, and objectively it isn’t _delicious_ , but it is making his own cock throb, making him sink and pull his head up and down Richard’s cock quicker, deeper. He pulls off and presses sloppy, panting kisses to the soft vulnerable crease of Richard’s thigh. 

“Come here,” he says, shivering at how raspy his voice has gotten already he. He scoots himself backwards, off the bed and gets on his knees on the floor before tugging at Richard’s calf until he gets the point and sits on the edge. His legs are now enclosed around Taron and Taron happily ducks in, sinks his mouth back around that cock. Richard is thick, stretching his lips, heavy and ridged on his tongue. 

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Richard is babbling, getting his hands on Taron’s shoulders, his neck, jaw. He traces a thumb over Taron’s lips, then the corner of his eye, where a tiny tear of pleasure is beading. 

Taron can’t take it then, and wraps a hand around his cock, just to get some relief. It’s so _good_ and he feels his eyelids flutter in pleasure for a moment. He moans and doubles his efforts. Richard’s hips suddenly buck up. 

“Fuck, sorry,” Richard murmurs. Taron can’t really shake his head with a cock in his mouth, so he makes a sound of indignation and brings his free up to press at the very small of Richard’s back. Richard understands quickly, groaning. “You...you like that?” He bucks his hips slightly to indicate and Taron gives his loudest moan yet as affirmation. “Jesus Christ, Taron,” Richard groans, like he’s marveling at this discovery. He does it again and Taron feels his own breathing speed up at how much he really, really fucking likes it. 

Taron’s orgasm hits him without warning—he hadn’t anticipated or prepared for it at all. One second he’s absorbed in sucking Richard off, the next a crest of pleasure is rushing up at him. He pulls off Richard cock and cries out, before sinking his teeth in the firm muscle of Richard’s thigh. Come lands sticky and burning on his fist, his abdomen, his thighs. He feels actually dizzy for several moments, completely shocked by it. 

“Did you…?” Richard pants. “Oh fuck, sweetheart.” 

The name just makes Taron come _harder_. He’s gasping for breath by the time it’s over, face still hidden in Richard’s thigh. “Okay,” he wheezes, blinking sweat out of his eyes. 

Richard lets out a breathless, disbelieving chuckle and hauls Taron onto the bed. He has Taron roll over onto his back and gets between his legs, holding himself up with his elbows planted on either side of Taron’s shoulders. “Hey,” Richard says, all blotchy red cheeks and glassy blue eyes, like he’s the one who just got run over by a surprise orgasm. He brings a palm up and swipes over Taron’s sweaty forehead, pushes the short strands of hair back from his skin. 

“Hey,” Taron sighs. “And here you were the one worried about coming too soon.” 

Richard laughs and gives Taron a messy, atrociously spit-soaked kiss. It’s absolutely perfect and Taron gives him as good as he gets. “I do hope you don’t think this means I’m done here at all,” Taron murmurs into Richard’s mouth.

He gets a grin in response, Richard’s teeth pressed against his lips and chin. “Trying to prove something, are we?” Richard teases. “You taste like me,” he adds, in a much lower tone and lets Taron lose his mind over that while he starts to kiss his way down Taron’s neck, his chest and his torso. When he gets to the splatters of come all over Taron’s belly, he starts to lap them up. 

“ _Richard_ ,” Taron says, tangling his fingers in Richard’s hair when he realizes what he’s doing.

Richard rubs a soothing palm along Taron’s flank, and moves on to lick the stripes of come along Taron’s pelvis and thighs. He mouths oh so softly over Taron’s blood-hot, sensitive softened cock and gentles his lips even more when Taron hisses. Finally, when it seems he’s gotten the last of it, he moves back up Taron’s body and gives him a slow, slack mouthed kiss. “Do I taste like you?” Richard asks, his accent dripping from every word, his voice low and deep. 

Taron whines, probably pathetically. “You should be illegal,” he gasps. His cock has been down barely two minutes and Taron can feel the tug in his balls as it throbs in an effort to harden once more when he hears Richard’s words. 

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Richard chuckles, kissing all over Taron’s face. They’re both sweating, it smells like it and it’s slick all over and it’s really, really fucking turning Taron on. He wants to come all over Richard and he wants Richard to come all over him, and he wants to see how that changes the smell of them—what they smell like together. It’s filthy, and he _craves_ it. 

“Yes, it does,” Taron insists stubbornly. 

Richard shakes his head slowly, moving back down Taron’s body. He cups Taron’s already half-hard cock again, looking entirely too smug—though he has every right to be. “It doesn’t,” Richard says, keeping eye contact with Taron, who has lifted his head from the bed to watch Richard, entranced. “If I get you hard again, will you fuck me? Will you give me that?” 

Taron wants to point out that Richard isn’t going to have to do anything specific to get Taron hard again—he’s well past on his way there just with how Richard looks, how he smells, tastes, feels. He doesn’t say that though, because he’s still reeling at the second part of Richard’s question. “ _Fuck_ ,” Taron groans. “Give you anything when you look at me like that.” 

Richard’s mouth slackens and he mouths, eyes fluttering closed briefly. He flicks them back open and moves to kiss all over Taron’s thighs. “You know,” Richard muses. “I’ve thought about a half dozen things I could do to you here.” He rubs boths his palms over the lengths of Taron’s thighs to indicate. “Drive me fucking mad.” Richard sinks his teeth in the flesh of Taron’s inner thigh, seals his lips over the skin and sucks a mark into it. 

Taron pants, drops his head back against the mattress, unable to keep it upright any longer. “You can do whatever you want with me,” Taron breathes helplessly, honestly. “Richard, I swear to God you’ve made a right whore of me.” 

There’s the nudge of Richard’s nose at the innermost, softest part of Taron’s thigh and instinctively he pulls his legs further apart. “C’mere,” Richard says softly, wrapping a hand around one of Taron’s hips and encouraging him to tilt his pelvis slightly. When his damp, hot breath ghosts over Taron’s hole, Taron gasps, and feels himself clench. “Can I?” Taron can feel how shuddery his breath has gone, how much he must want this. 

Taron was back to full hardness the second Richard put his mouth on Taron’s thighs but Taron isn’t about to deny both Richard and himself _this_. “Yes,” he grits out. “Yes, yes. Rich, you can—” 

Richard lets out a grinding groan and ducks in, swiping his tongue over Taron’s hole. He gives a shuddery and grips both of Taron’s thighs tightly, craning his neck and opening his mouth wet, sloppy, needy over the ring of muscle there. Taron can _feel_ him drooling, getting wet saliva all over Taron and undoubtedly himself too, and the sheet underneath them. Richard brings a thumb up, massages over Taron’s hole until the muscles to relax, then sinks the tip of his index finger inside. 

“Oh,” Richard groans, the vibrations of it moving through Taron’s skin. “I—you feel good.” He adds the tip of his middle finger, too, and very carefully works them in up to the second knuckle. 

There’s a strong possibility Taron could come—again—like this. A very strong possibility, so he bites his lip hard, trying to make himself focus and tugs desperately at Richard’s hair. “Rich,” he rasps, sweat dripping from every part of his body. “C’mon, c’mon. Promised I’d fuck you, I’m ready, come here.” 

Richard moans, laves one last lick over Taron’s arse, and then climbs up so he’s face to face with Taron again. He looks like absolute filth and he smells even filthier and Taron wants to break him down even more, wants to destroy him. Taron wants Richard to tear _him_ into pieces, tiny little pieces, until nothing is left except the parts that belong to Richard only. “Yeah?” Richard breathes, body practically trembling in obvious anticipation. 

“Yes,” Taron hisses, pulling Richard’s lower lip between his teeth sharply. That makes Richard sort of snarl and shove him down onto the bed by his shoulders, ducking into bite and suck at Taron’s neck. Taron whines and Richard kisses wetly over the freckle in the hollow of his throat. 

“Do you have stuff?” Richard asks. 

“Nightstand,” Taron gasps. 

Richard grabs the bottle of lubricant from the bottom drawer and comes to Taron, sitting with his thighs splayed out over Taron’s hips. “We’ve only been here one night and already in the nightstand, hm?” Richard teases. 

“Fucked myself this morning,” Taron says, easily. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Richard stutters, sloshing the lubricant sloppily onto his hand. Taron can see drops of sweat clinging to the hair on his chest and he _wants_. So, he sits up quickly—Richard moves back over his thighs—and kisses along Richard’s chest happily, lapping up drops of sweat and letting his mouth and chin get a bit roughed up by the hair along the way. 

He knows when Richard gets a finger in himself because he lets out a guttural groan and arches his spine up a bit. “Oh God, Rich,” Taron says, voice soft, awed. He wraps his arms around Richard’s shoulders and kisses his slack mouth, laps up the spit pooled in the plush curve of his lower lip. He kisses over the rest of Richard’s face too, holds him tightly as he continues opening himself up. Soft, intoxicating sounds leave his mouth every so often and Taron can feel how hard his cock is, hot and dripping where it’s pressed against Taron’s torso. 

“Do you want to feel?” Richard asks lowly. His voice is like gravel. Taron blinks hazily and then Richard is using his free hand to guide Taron’s hand behind him, back to his arse and into the place where he has three fingers now buried inside himself. 

Taron pants, buries his face into Richard’s neck, and traces over the rim of Richard’s hole, over the stretch of skin and the ridges of Richard’s fingers. He pauses and barely presses the tip of one his fingers against the rim. 

“Do it,” Richard goads, accent irresistible. 

Taron pushes a finger inside with Richard’s, tight, tight, _tight_ and silken warmth. Richard lets out a noise a bit like he’s been punched and Taron drags his teeth restlessly over Richard’s collarbone. Richard curls his fingers inside himself then and Taron follows suit. They must hit a spot because Richard yelps and digs the nails of his free hand harshly into Taron’s bicep. “You’re going to fuck me now,” Richard says. Sweat is weighing his hair down, turning the auburn waves a shade darker and plastering several strands to his forehead. Taron would do just about anything for him in this moment. 

“Bossy,” Taron murmurs, but there’s no weight or cadence behind it. He’s too dazed and cockdrunk to pretend otherwise. They pull their fingers from Richard’s body. Richard grins that wild grin of his and tilts his hips forward, then sinks slowly over Taron’s cock. 

He is _burning_ around Taron, molten softness that clutches at him with every inch down. Taron’s glad for the moment that he’s already come once—if he hadn’t he’s quite certain he would have come before Richard had him all the way inside. The second Richard is settled, they both let out a wheezy exhale and then Richard trembles a little in his arms. 

“Alright?” Taron checks, sweat stinging his eyes. 

Richard nods vigorously. “I—-it feels—I like it. I’m gonna—fuck me now, okay?” 

Taron wastes not a moment, turns them around and gets Richard flat on his back, does his best to cover inch of Richard’s body with his own. There’s not a thing in the world that could make Taron believe this is going to last more than a few minutes, they’re both closeclose _close_ already and this has been—- 

“Months,” Richard gasps, raking his hands down Taron’s back and biting at his neck, his jaw, his chest. “ _Months_.” Taron is fucking him hard enough he’s bouncing slightly on the bed and everytime Taron gets a particularly vicious thrust in, Richard chokes out his name and thrashes his head slightly. 

“I know,” Taron agrees. “Fuck, love, I know.” He _does_ know. He knows in the way he’s spent months _watching_ Richard, using any excuse to get close to him, missing him after an hour apart, babbling to old friends about how wonderful he is, closing his eyes in the shower with his fingers inside himself and seeing the set of Richard’s shoulders, the trail of hair on his abdomen. 

Taron gets a hand around Richard’s cock—wants it in him, soon, wants every part of Richard it’s possible for him to get—and thumbs over the head. “Taron,” Richard groans, sounding more than a little out of control, writhing around in Taron’s arms. Taron pins him to the bed, one hand on his hip and the other on his shoulder and works his cock in and out as ruthlessly as he can manage. His body _aches_ but he would let it burn if it meant making Richard’s face crumple the way it is now. 

“Please come, please come, please come,” Taron mutters, feverish. 

Richard slaps one hand to Taron’s shoulder and the other to his arse, digging his nails in. When he comes, he groans Taron’s name and Taron can _smell_ his come as it starts to shoot up between them, sticky and hot and so fucking good. His arse is spasming, slick and deliciously tight, around Taron. The last few spurts drip down and splatter along Richard’s pelvis, a few stray drops hitting Taron’s hand where it’s still clamped tightly around his hip. His brings his hand up, shaking, and licks it off. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Taron whines at the taste, probably high pitched and embarassing. Richard is panting beneath him, blotchy red all over his body and eyes blown wide. Taron can see the ghost of a blissed smile at his lips. 

Richard presses three of his fingers clumsily to Taron’s lips and Taron draws them into his mouth without a second thought, suckling at them, digging his teeth in as his balls draw up tight. “Sweetheart,” Richard says, his voice beyond wrecked. 

Taron shoves his hips in deep and comes at the word. It’s so _good_ , toe-curling in fact, and Richard’s body clutches him tight throughout it. He can feel Richard moving his hand in sweeping motions over his back, muttering something sweet to him. Taron’s vision goes fuzzy for a brief second and then the orgasm finally begins to taper, to let him up. Richard’s fingers are still in his mouth and Richard curls them around his tongue for a minute before pulling them free. He lets them rest, wet and filthy, on Taron’s chest. 

“Hey,” Richard murmurs when Taron’s finally all the way down from it. He’s so gorgeous—an assault on the senses, really. Not for the first time, Taron wonders how he’s physically _possible_. And Taron just fucked him straight into the mattress. 

“What the fuck,” Taron gasps, gently pulling his cock from Richard’s body. 

Richard snorts, and then falls into a fit of giggles. Taron lets himself laugh, too. He buries his face into the crook of Richard’s neck. “I mean, honestly,” Taron insists, throat sore from overuse. “What the _fuck_?” 

Richard chuckles more, strokes gently at the back of Taron’s head and his sweaty hair. “Could you elaborate, do you think?” He presses a soft kiss to Taron’s ear. He seems to have wrapped all his limbs around Taron, gotten himself into a snuggly, all encompassing hug. Taron doesn’t point it out because he doesn’t want to risk Richard moving at all. 

“People...like...talk about _earth-shattering_ sex,” Taron begins. “I always figured they were just, you know, jack-asses. Exaggerating. But I swear to God, Richard….” He nuzzles into the sweaty dip of Richard’s collarbone. “I mean, is it always like that for you?” He genuinely needs to know, so that he can possibly reassess every sexual encounter he’s previously had to this. 

“No,” Richard says, lowly. “Just you.” He sighs into Taron’s shoulder. “Just you,” he repeats. 

Taron sighs and kisses over the soft, sweaty skin of Richard’s neck once before rolling over and onto his back beside Richard. Richard shifts upwards a little bit, propping himself up on an elbow so he can look down at Taron’s face. He brings his other hand up to trace a few fingers over Taron’s jaw. 

“I...look after you...because you’re pretty much the best person I’ve ever met,” Richard say gently. “That’s also why I want to fuck you, probably.” He pauses to give Taron a smug smile here, but his face softens immediately. He drags his thumb over Taron’s brow, his lower lip, the bridge of his nose. “Anyway. I don’t always mean to do it, those...those things. It just happens, I guess. Does it bother you?” 

“ _God_ , no,” Taron says instantly. He grabs Richard’s hand and presses it with his own to the center of his chest. “Of course not. When all my mates in the business were telling me you and I would get along, I didn’t believe them, honestly. I mean, you were always so...untouchable. Threatening, if I’m honest. Or, intimidating I guess. From what I’d seen of you.” 

“Intimidating?” Richard asks an expression somewhere between flattered and confused overtaking his face. 

Taron rolls his eyes. “Yeah and then I met you and realized I had it all wrong.” Richard makes a face and Taron laughs, brings Richard’s hand up to kiss the palm. “But really, I...I think the world of you and you were acting, you know, that way. And I wouldn’t have allowed myself to think that that was _why_ , you see? I need to draw the line for my ego somewhere.” 

Richard leans down and presses a kiss to Taron’s forehead. “I never would have said anything,” Richard tells him. “Would have taken it to my grave. If you hadn’t brought...something up first, I would never have breathed a damn word.”

Taron blinks. “That seems bloody morbid,” he says. “What if I’d never said anything?” Then they never would have gotten _this_ , and that just seems like such a fucking waste. 

“You have to understand,” Richard goes on. “I didn’t want to be that guy. You’re so bright, T. I mean, fuck, do you know what you’ve done with this film? I didn’t want to fuck it up, didn’t want to make it awkward. And you’re going to do so much more. I...I wanted to be in your life for that, you know? And I dunno, at risk of sounding like the sorriest sod, I enjoy having you as my best mate too much. Couldn’t lose that.” 

“Richard,” Taron says, gentle. The idea that _Richard_ , of all people, could fear _Taron_ rejecting him or simply not wanting him in his life—it doesn’t seem to add up in Taron’s worldview, his reality where he’s spent months avoiding his attraction to Richard because he _liked him too much_. But the emotions are plain as day on Richard’s face. “Hey, hey,” Taron says. He tugs Richard down for a soft, chaste kiss. “You’re still my best mate. I mean, you need to know I’m literally drowning in how much I want you, all the time, and I don’t think that’s going to stop soon. But we’ll always be best mates, yeah? No matter...no matter what might happen from here. My best mate.”

Richard _smiles_ , and presses one more kiss to Taron’s forehead. “Best mates first.” 

Taron goes to sit up and pull Richard into a sort of one armed hug but everyone single one of his muscles screams in protest at the first bit of movement. “Best mates that fucking broke each other,” Taron amends, sinking back into the mattress with a groan. 

“Dramatic,” Richard teases, though when he goes to sit up fully himself a grimace overtakes his face instantly. Taron raises a knowing eyebrow at him and Richard rolls his eyes. He gives Taron a kiss on his nose. “I know you have a ridiculously sized tub in your bathroom suite,” Richard says, stifling a yawn. “I’ll go run us a bath, love.” He makes to get up again and suddenly Taron springs into action, ignoring the laments of his tired body. 

Taron stands up from the bed and Richard blinks at him in confusion. “No, no.” Taron says, pushing gently back at Richard’s shoulder until he lays down. “I’ll do it, alright?” He ducks down and gives Richard a slack-mouthed kiss until Richard gives up and melts back into the bed. “I’ll come get you when it’s warm,” he promises. 

He’s ten steps from the bed when a thought occurs to him. “Richard,” Taron says, trying to keep the humor from his voice. 

“Yeah?” 

“I need to know,” Taron starts. “Even when half my hair was shaved off?”

Richard _laughs_ , heartily, and props himself up on his elbows on the bed so he can look at Taron. His hair is a wild, matted, sweaty mess and his skin looks tacky with drying sweat even from a distance and his eyes are heavy-lidded with post-orgasmic haziness. He’s stunning. “Honestly?” Richard smirks. “Yes. Even then.” 

The bath can wait for one or two more kisses. 

—

Two days later, at a press conference, Taron is answering a reporter’s question in great depth. Richard is beside him, eyes fixed on the crowd. From Taron’s peripherals, he sees Richard uncap a water bottle at his right and pour its contents into Taron’s almost empty cup for him. 

He’s too involved in what he’s saying to turn and give Richard a proper thanks or even a smile—not to mention the sea of cameras—but he reaches his hand out under the table and gives Richard’s thigh a squeeze in acknowledgment. Richard empties the bottle and pulls it away, putting the cap back on and setting it aside. He shifts his leg slightly closer to Taron, so that his foot is touching Taron’s own. 

If it were in private he’d give Richard a kiss on the cheek in appreciation—as it is, that’ll just be saved for later. Richard knows. He always does. For now, Taron keeps on talking, happy in his element, infinitely proud of his work, and so content with the man beside him.

**Author's Note:**

> so...i am not entirely sure what that was but it was certainly something. also a couple of the richard-doting-on-taron moments described were based on actual things we have footage of richard doing. 
> 
> i have been more productive in writing fic for this fandom than any other i have written for before--and i've been writing for a while. interesting.
> 
> kudos and comments (i reply) are more important than water to me


End file.
